Throwback Thursday- The Pulse of His Pen

Sometimes the poet
longs to be the muse
The vibrations of the
stars. The vibrations of
his stars, to flicker in
time with his celestial
tune.

Sometimes the poet
longs to be the
inspiration that flames
the fire. She longs
to be the embers’
point of view.

Sometimes the poet
wants to be his lavish
inner life, to drift just
for awhile in a green
expanse that only he
has the deed to.

Sometimes the poet
desires to be the
lightening threading
the darkness in his
head. The language
he explores in a
notebook that taste
like longing, to be the
alphabet of atoms he
breathe in as he sits
at a moonlit desk.
To be remembered,
not a reminder.

Sometimes the poet
wants to be the pulse
behind his pen, the
words he uses in
excess, beating out
onto paper, his living
obsession.

The grandiose of his
emphatic vision. The
glistening black ink
revealing secrets
like unrepentant lovers.

Sometimes the poet
longs to be the muse.
The arrow wound in
his vascular organ.
The sugar in his
parietal lobe.

The holy ghost that
punctuates his sentences
The promises of rapture.
The poem he’s afraid to
write, but writes any way.

Sometimes the poet
wants to be the muse
tilting her head
provocatively, making
a place for him in the
cleavage of her chest
She wants her lips to
taste his syllables,
to feel his noun slipping
inside her body.
His verbs penetrating
her core. His adjectives
addicted to the beauty,
the softness of her skin.
No questions marks.

Sometimes the poet
longs to be the dream,
the fever. The flag he
plants from woven silk
he’s spun.

Sometimes the poet
longs to be the muse,
the vibrations in his
aesthetic sky.

The morning stars
singing notes of praise
and renewal. Notes
that rise over melting
snow, on the fringe
of the green part of
the forest.

Awakening spirits and
the quicksilver breeze
of spring .

Sometimes the poet
longs to be the muse
but get lost in her own
verse instead.

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64 thoughts on “Throwback Thursday- The Pulse of His Pen”

Beautifully rendered once again. Unfortunately for me, it’s the arrow throw the vascular organ that tends to get the black ink glistening and flowing once again. I truly wish that I could write something worthwhile when I’m in a non-wounded state.

Images rise
onto blanc pages
words written
in consecutive
rhythmic sequences
eyes swing left to right
remembering
the ink spilled
blood red
from pierced veins
that wanted to be loved
read
heard
embrace its reader
warm the heart
move every muscle
longing to praise
the muse in front of him.
Giving
receiving
emotions
uncalled
in an attempt
to smudge
colour
this box with letters
and come alive
to dance
seep into the eyes
and burn on to a soul
Speak in silence
and flicker that flame
with gratitude
in front of the poet
that just became
a muse.
Please keep on writing.

Lovely write Tosha and very true for many of us female poets. We have our own muses and like the idea of being a muse ourselves. Somehow most of the time we work across purposes but it’s not so bad after all because that is a source for inspiration and the story goes on, unending, limitless..